I can't read anymore of that girl's moonshine words, her absinthian writing. It's making me sick in the brains, like I've got to puke through my spinal column, make it come out of the tailbone that is surreptitious under a soft, warm, but ultimately too-thin flap of skin.
Darlin' babies, it's the jealousy gone reared it's ugly head, makin' me have a fright of a pain in this too small brain of mine. Oh lordy, no one knows my sorrow.
Cradle me, Les Matter.
P.S. I hope I made up absinthian. Flatter my bone-shy thoughts.
P.P.S. Because I least I have that on her.